


The Importance of Good Tailoring

by flightrules



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Han knows how to sew, M/M, after the battle of Yavin, events of the night before the award ceremony, the effects of good tailoring, trigger warning for drunken and therefore dubious (but joyful) consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightrules/pseuds/flightrules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han notices that Luke doesn't have anything to wear for the award ceremony after the battle of Yavin. </p><p>Good thing Han knows how to sew.</p><p>And, of course, there's the added bonus of seeing Luke Skywalker in a really well-fitted pair of pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Good Tailoring

**Author's Note:**

> A contribution to the ongoing conversation about where the heck Luke got his outfit for the award ceremony at the end of ANH.

Men from Corellia can sew.

They breed spacefarers, the Corellians, men who make the stars their home, who can draw hyperspace maps from memory, who can fly a ship with a hole in the hull and a half-ruined engine, and then repair the damage with a screwdriver and a used ration can.

They are men of action, these Corellians, and there isn't always a convenient tailor when a seam splits or a cuff falls undone.

They're also usually broke.

Not all of them, not the owners of the big shipyards, not the leaders of the smuggling cartels. But the regular guys, the ones making their way and their livelihood among the stars: There are long stretches when they don't have two coins to rub together. 

A needle, some thread, a bolt of fabric: those come cheap.

A Corellian boy learns at his father's knee. Or his uncle's. First, to darn socks and make a simple tunic. Later, to shape a shirt and trousers to fit his own frame, to get the shoulders to hit right and the legs the proper length. Some of them stop there, the practical angles covered.

But a lot of Corellian men have pride. There's more to a good pair of trousers than a waist that fits and hems that stop above the floor. You have to get the rise right, put a curve in the waistband, get the break just so.

There's a reason Corellian men look good, even covered in grease or beaten black and blue.

 

It’s the day before the Medal Ceremony and no one's seen Han Solo for hours. The _Falcon_ 's closed up tight. Its radio is silent. 

Han's in there all right, but he's a little busy. Hunched over at a stitching machine, working with needle and thread, pausing to wield scissors, closing his eyes to picture: Yes, that shape, that angle, this many centimeters to trim.

 

Chewbacca’s already on board, resting sensibly in his cabin. (It's been a hell of a few days.) There's only two other people that Han would open the door for. One of them is busy at the Command center and will be there into the night, making plans to evacuate this base and find a new one.

The other turns up outside the _Falcon_ some time after midnight, waving at the security vid. The cup in his other hand tips and spills, and he's laughing as he licks his hand and shakes drops of liquid off the sleeve.

Han put the thread and needle away just a few minutes ago, folding up his work and setting it on the small shelf in his cabin. Back in the lounge he stretches his fingers, working out stiff muscles, watching the vidscreen. The chime sounds again, and Luke waves more vigorously. He's shouting something, but the audio's not working. Han's been meaning to fix that for… well, a while.

Han's not a great lip reader, but he can figure out _I know you're in there._ Luke holds up the cup and points to it and the meaning of that is clear, too. _I'm drunk, and it's good, and I expect you to join me._

Han presses a button and the landing door drops slowly down.

 

Han wakes in the morning with a headache, a dry mouth, and a nineteen-year-old farm boy in his bunk. Luke's head is resting on his chest, arm across his belly, one leg slung over. He's not any heavier than he looks, this kid. Han could probably toss him across the room.

His memories from last night are a little bit foggy, but he remembers Luke's absolute delight when Luke slung a drunken arm around his shoulders and Han reached up, put a hand on the side of Luke's head, and pushed him into a kiss. The kid busted out laughing, which was not the response Han usually expected.

But it turned out getting naked with a Tatooine farmboy was the most fun he's had on the _Falcon_ in ages. And flying the _Falcon_ is, all by itself, pretty damn fun. 

Luke wakes up by degrees, long lashes fluttering and then blue eyes opening, unfocused, blinking for a few seconds before he's really there.

Han can see the moment when Luke realizes where he is. 

A flush creeps up from Luke's cheeks to his forehead, and instead of the unabashed laughter from last night, he gives a shy smile. “‘Morning.”

“Good morning, hotshot,” Han tells him, marveling (as he did last night--but he's sober now) at how pretty this Luke Skywalker is.

Luke groans. “I think I drank enough for three people. Stop me if I ever try to do that again.”

"You sorry you stayed?” Han asks, suddenly thinking he’s overstepped, that Luke was only here last night because he wasn't thinking straight, that he's taken advantage of a kid from the Outer Rim who's never--

A look of worry crosses Luke's boyish face, putting a wrinkle in the smooth skin between his eyes. “Only if you are.”

Well all right then. Han lets him worry a minute longer, just to tease him, as he slides out of the bunk and checks the chrono. “Better get ready for that ceremony, kid.” 

He leans down, puts a hand behind Luke's head, and kisses him.

“You can sleep another few minutes. I’m gonna go get cleaned up.” Han’s still naked as the day he was born, but Chewie won't care. On the way out the door to the refresher, he passes the small shelf, picks up his work from the night before. “Here,” he says, tossing it to Luke. “I made you something.”

 

The pants fit, of course they do, they were made by a Corellian pilot and Corellian men know how to sew. Luke doesn't know the meaning of the stripes down the sides, but Han will tell him later.

They're standing just outside the Great Hall now, waiting for the signal to walk out and let the entire Alliance applaud them. Luke looks every bit the dashing young hero. Good tailoring, Han thinks, admiring his own work, is like syrup on a sweetcake: takes a good thing and makes it better.

Luke catches him looking and shoots him the sunniest damn smile, and if Han wasn't half in love with him already he'd probably flee in terror.

“Nice pants,” Han says, and behind him Chewie chuckles, and Luke says, “Thanks.”

“Get them off you later,” Han adds in a softer growl, leaning closer, and Luke's eyes get big and his face goes pink. 

And then the trumpet fanfare starts and someone nudges them both forward, and they're walking out into the Great Hall, past the assembled Rebel troops, toward Leia waiting for them at the end.


End file.
